


Death on a Leash

by Tragedie_Sinclair



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: Creepy, Death, Grim Reapers, Sad, Veterinary Clinic, Veterinary Medicine, Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-08-30 04:26:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16757662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tragedie_Sinclair/pseuds/Tragedie_Sinclair
Summary: There are no shortages of ghost stories in vet clinics.Maybe it’s a huge inside joke, or a game some people play?Everyone thinks their clinic is haunted, even the little ones in strip malls sandwiched between a subway and a store that’s always changing but still always sells cellular phones.I did not ever expect to see what I saw on this day. I always thought it was just a metaphor...





	Death on a Leash

For me, becoming a veterinary technician was a transformative process. There was a seemingly infinite amount of knowledge to acquire and many difficult skills to learn. After re-learning how to do algebra after eight years without thinking about math, memorizing countless pharmaceuticals, doing hundreds of blood smears, urinalyses and fecal floats, I was sent out onto my internship.

I was excited yet anxious, confident yet filled with self-doubt. I had been working in vet clinics during the duration of my schooling, and I had already seen a lot. Sad stories of abuse, neglect, abandonment and death, but also wonderful stories of second chances and amusing mishaps easily remedied. I watched with awe as a dog who had eaten half a jar of paintballs puked vibrant, almost-glowing yellow liquid into the trashcan I was holding for him. He was fine. I managed to thwart two euthanasias and save two dog’s lives during my time as a vet tech, and for that I am forever proud. One was simply diabetic but the owner did not realize it, and the other was a one year old puppy with a long story who I helped find a second lease on life on the day he was scheduled to die.

There are no shortages of ghost stories in vet clinics. I suppose it depends on where you work, but the clinics where I’ve worked have always had a few people who professed to witness strange things happening around the clinic. Objects moved around when they come in early in the mornings or strange sounds echoing around when they stay late at night. Maybe it’s a huge inside joke, or a game some people play? Everyone thinks their clinic is haunted, even the little ones in strip malls sandwiched between a subway and a store that’s always changing but still always sells cellular phones.  

I did not ever expect to see what I saw on this day. I always thought it was just a metaphor, a personification of something intangible. An artist’s rendition. But I saw it. The story I am about to tell you is 100% true. Not just true in the context of the story, but true in the context of where you are right now at this present moment. True in the context of the world you see around you, wherever you happen to be in the world. Real as the clothes resting on your skin and your chest moving as you breathe. I invite you to be skeptical, indeed I would applaud you for not just blindly believing whatever someone tells you. Critical thinking is in too short supply these days. But trust me on this one.

I am a pretty honest person. I am not a good liar, so I don’t make a habit of doing it. I’ve found honesty to be a powerful tool for a happy life, and I’d highly recommend it. I am a storyteller, of course. I do get a kick out of creating elaborate, fantastic hyperbole, but there is a time and a place for that. This is not one of those times. It is something I can never explain. It haunts me, even after years have gone by and I changed careers.

It was a typical day for me. I got done with my job at the local pizza place and went to the vet clinic where I was interning. I was covered in flour and the bottoms of my non-slip shoes were encrusted with pepperoni and sausage and cheese. Normally I would make a bee-line from the front door to the bathroom to change into my clinic shoes and scrubs before the veterinarian’s dog could over-zealously greet me by pouncing on my meat-feet.  I am pretty sure today was no different. I don’t remember if it was sunny or cloudy, and I don’t remember which month it was, though it had to have been sometime between September and March.

I walked back into the treatment area around the time most of the techs were on lunch. The vets were hidden in their offices doing paperwork while they ate. One girl was still back there, standing near the oxygen chamber. I walked over to see what she was looking it.

Inside was the tiniest puppy I had ever seen. He was curled up in a little ball, golden-yellow fur covering his roly-poly little body. It would have been irresistible not to reach out and touch him if it were not for the plexiglass separating him from the rest of the world. For a moment I was overcome by the cuteness, and then I noticed he was not resting peacefully. His breathing was labored and he was shaking despite being covered in blankets and warm bags of saline.

The technician informed me the dog had been having seizures since he was born earlier that morning. So young his eyes were not even open yet, and already he was so gravely ill. I don’t know what the vet’s prognosis was, but I remember having hope the puppy could recover. Perhaps I am sugar-coating the memory. Perhaps I was told that the dog was not going to live, but I refused to believe it. I was about to graduate and the world was full of possibility. I visualized the dog leaving the clinic in the arms of the owner, hoping to send some positive energy into the little guy.

Whatshername went to lunch. I stayed by the puppy, still desperately trying to send some sort of psychic healing energy into his little brain to stop his seizures forever. Then I saw something move behind me in the reflection of the glass. I knew I was alone back there. The large, open treatment area was silent as an undiscovered tomb and I had heard no footsteps coming up behind me. I focused my sight on the surface of the glass, attempting to see if anyone was behind me.

That’s when I saw him. Death. The Grim Reaper. A black cloak covering a faceless man with a terrifying, ancient-looking farm implement in his hand. He was just standing behind me, motionless as a mournful graveyard statue. I could see the hem of his cloak across where his brow should have been, but there was absolutely no face. No skull. Just an absence of everything. Beneath that cloak was a black hole, sucking into it all the little intangibilities that make life… life. There was no fear, no chill in the air. There was no feeling at all. No sensation of the ground beneath my feet or my hair lying against the back of my neck or the breath filling my lungs. No heart-racing or palms sweating. I was frozen, staring into that black abyss.

Surely I was sleep deprived! I turned around slowly, half expecting to see a coworker in a hooded winter coat behind me. Yes, that’s what it was! But there was no one there. I turned back around and again looked into the face of death, still reflected in the glass of the oxygen chamber.

I felt a spark of defiance in me. The absence of feeling left me with no fear, but the lack of fright emboldened me. I scowled at him, looking him dead in the eye—or, at least, where his eyes should have been, and told him exactly what I was thinking.

“No! You go away. Get outta here.”

I scolded him like a dog, albeit under my breath, lest someone overhear and think I’m crazy.

He said nothing, instead responding with a slow shake of his head before he lifted up his arm to point at the puppy behind the glass. The tattered black sleeve hung off his exposed ulna as his long, dangerous-looking phalange extended out over my shoulder.

Shit.

I turned around, ready to push my face into that black hole and scream, but there was nothing behind me but the sterile white and grey of the treatment area. I turned back to the glass but the reflection was gone. I would never see him again… face to face.

It was not long before I was called to do something, I can’t remember what, but I do remember not wanting to leave the puppy alone. Maybe my presence would keep him at bay? I had to go, but within fifteen minutes I was back at the oxygen chamber.

My heart dropped.

“Can I get some help over here!?”

I could not shout too loud, but I was frantic and had no idea what to do. The clients were coming in with our afternoon patients and I did not want to alarm anyone waiting in one of the exam rooms. The rear doors of the exam rooms opened right into the treatment area and were rarely closed. A vet and a tech ran over, flung open the chamber door and attempted to stop the seizure. I stood there petrified, watching with tears in my eyes as the dogs slowly stopped twitching. He was gone. Never even got to open his eyes.

The Grim Reaper is not a metaphor. It is not a personification of death. Not a human construct to help us understand something difficult to cope with. The artist’s rendition is more than just a picture of death. It’s an account of a sighting, and I believe that mine is one of many that have occurred over the centuries of human history. He appears to just enough people to keep himself on our minds, but few enough to ensure he remains shrouded in mystery and disbelief.  

He is everywhere and nowhere. He spares nothing and no one. He is the one thing we all have in common. He comes for us all. Even our pets.

 

_In memory of every pet who has passed over the Rainbow Bridge. In memory of your pets._

_In memory of my shih-Tzu Barney. You were my Honeybee, my Minimuffin and a healing sage inside of a dog’s body._


End file.
